From 2011 until this month I was Poet Laureate of Vermont, during which time I visited 116 Vermont community libraries, not so much to read but to talk about what poetry can do that other modes of discourse can't. I loved the Q&A the most, because those within the academy often ask things that show how much they think they know, whereas library patrons are inclined to ask the important things: Who's talking here? To whom? Why? Where? I hope my poems can answer those questions, that no one needs some special knowledge or language to penetrate them.

Micah Weeping, 1983

Three decades ago, even the Vietnam WarSeemed gone for most of us. On Memorial Day,Or Decoration, as our small town’s elders would say,Fat Micah the plumber stood weeping while Mr. McClure’sAll-Student Band played taps. The flag was lowered

To halfway down the staff. I should have known somethingBy then. After all, one of my best college friendsHad been blown to pieces out there before we learnedEven where out there was– which got me goingPretty early in the nonstop ‘60s protest happening.

I’ll tell you what: we sure knew how to party.No, we couldn’t, say, have found My Lai on a map,So I’ll tell you something else: we were full of crapIn certain respects. We all turned 70 lately,Those who remain, that is. I look at Me

In ‘83, and cringe. I should have beenTuned in by that year to more than I was as I spiedOn Micah, Korea veteran, who stood and criedOn the common, the tears all lost within his chins.I silently jeered him: He’s just a drunk, his gin’s

What’s bringing on the poor-me act. I envisioned The poor slob busting his trousers with all that girth,Seams blowing out of his army-issue shirt.There was so much else in the world I could have imagined,But no one had shot at me, I hadn’t seen anyone

Bleed to death, so I thought he just looked loopyIn that cap that seemed to be melting down his headLike snow down a roof. From the bandstand somebody saidThe usual boilerplate words about honor and duty.I stood there that day myself, in love with mockery.

Micah would drink his pancreas away.Gunfire hadn’t, but the booze knew how to maim him.His grandson’s just back from Iraq, about the same.Micah, I wish you could show up here today.I might have other, better things to say,